


Are You Stalking Me? (Cuz That Would Be Super)

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Celebrities, M/M, Stalking, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang, media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles Stilinski receives the biggest job of his journalistic career--exposing pretty boy, party boy Jackson Whittemore's every scandal--he knows shit's going to hit the fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Stalking Me? (Cuz That Would Be Super)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second rebang! This one is based on a fanmix by sentbyfools, and I’m really happy with how it turned out. (Note: Sorry to sentbyfools for the delay on getting this posted here!)
> 
>  **Fanmix:**  
>  01\. Radar - Britney Spears  
> 02\. Obsession - Innerpartysystem  
> 03\. Every Breath You Take - The Police  
> 04\. Paparazzi - Lady Gaga  
> 05\. My Name is Trouble - Nightmare of You  
> 06\. Mirotic - DBSK  
> 07\. Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran  
> 08\. Sha Shou - JJ Lin

“This is the biggest job you will ever get.”

“Yessir.”

“This could be the last job you ever get.”

Stiles tenses, confused. “Yessir..”

“You better do a damn fucking good job on it, Stilinski.” Finstock jabs him in the chest with his pen. “Or it’ll be your head on a platter.”

Gulping nervously, Stiles nods. “Yessir.”

)

At face value, the job is deceptively simple: expose what hasn’t already been exposed about Jackson Whittemore in time for his taking over of his father’s business.

Jackson Whittemore is famous for being famous, and not much else; he’s the Paris Hilton of men, except with no sex tape and more highlights. His dad runs a company with a long standing family friend, and there was a big scandal when Jackson and the family friend’s son started to date, stopped dating, got caught fucking in a restaurant bathroom, and still decided to be best friends.

(Personally, Stiles thinks the whole ordeal was annoying, romantic, and the perfect premise for a movie.)

(But his job isn’t reliant on his personal opinion, so that’s irrelevant.)

)

As he tinkers with the first draft of his first article, Stiles opens another document and types up a brief synopsis of  _‘the second greatest love story ever told: or, how the sons of two business partners fell in love.’_

He contemplates the idea for a moment before adding, a few lines down,  _‘any and all likeliness’s to any real life people are completely coincidental.’_

)

Stiles gets the assignment and calls Scott up immediately. “How down would you be to help me stalk a celebrity.”

Scott hums over the phone, contemplating the offer.

“Dude,” Stiles implores, “last time you helped me stalk a celebrity, you met your girlfriend.” Now, fiance.

“Yeah, but dude, I don’t need another fiance.” Scott says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And you really don’t need another restraining order.” Scott tells him very seriously.

“Ms. Martin was kind enough to drop all charges. And the restraining order. So long as I stop contacting her.”

Scott hangs up as if that explains everything.

)

Stiles is nothing if not thorough. He sits down one night with two liters of Mountain Dew beside him, all of his leftover Halloween Candy, and his laptop to watch as many videos as he can. He’s aiming to glean as much information about not only Jackson, but his family too, from the oodles of internet videos and interviews.

)

“ _I am regretful to inform the public that Mr. Mahealani Senior and I will be retiring at the end of the year; we are leaving the company in our son’s capable hands. I myself have made the decision to retire due in part to a recent…”_

)

“ _Mr. Whittemore.”_

“ _Please, call me Jackson. Mr. Whittemore is my father.”_

_The audience laughs on queue._

“ _Jackson, some call you the male Paris Hilton—that is, your claim to fame isn’t so much a claim but rather a first class ride to the top. What do you have to say about that?”_

)

“ _Daniel! Daniel!”_

_A strong jawed, tan, soft eyed man faces the cameras._

“ _What is your response to the rumor that you and Jackson Whittemore are having an illicit affair!”_

“ _My response is that it would only be an illicit affair if either of us were dating other people. Which we are not. Nor are we dating each other, but even if we were it would be none of your business. Jackson is my best friend, and I’m his. That’s it. Do what you want with that.”_

_He flips them the bird before hurrying down the crowded city street._

)

Jackson Whittemore is also famous for not knowing who his birth parents are. He was placed into adoption the moment he was born, and being born in the few years when it was cool to adopt, he was swept up immediately. He never talks about it in interviews more than he appreciates the life he’s been giving by his adoptive parents.

Stiles suspects there’s more to it than that; he knows that if he himself had been adopted, he’d be scouring the planet for his birth parents. Stiles channels the ideas that spring from this analysis—also from numerous Wikipedia articles on the effect of a lack of birth parents have on kids—into a draft of what could be considered an essay or an article. (He never publishes it, though.)

)

Stiles learns fast that Jackson Whittemore likes coffee—lattes, to be exact, of any form—plaid and argyle scarves, and books. He really, really likes books. Stiles spends time that should be spent drafting drafts of the article instead imagining Jackson as the beast, sitting in the grand library and being a mopey douchebag.

)

Stiles also learns fast that Jackson really likes cats, and volunteers at a far out of town humane society, a podunk little town that no paparazzi would think of. Except for Stiles.

He doesn’t stay long; he snaps but one picture of Jackson helping a kid pick out a kitten before figuring that the way to tarnish a man’s reputation isn’t to distribute pictures of him with cats and children.

)

Once, and only once, Stiles creeps a little too close and runs into Jackson’s subtle bodyguard—a bulky man named Boyd. He eyes Stiles up and shoves him back. “Fifteen feet distance.”

Stiles nods eagerly, “of course, of course,” he nods and bows and apologizes and considers what a fool he must look like, “my bad.”

)

Jackson’s folder says that he’s a chronic partier and multiple rags have published pictures of him getting down and dirty on the drug scene; all he needs, Stiles thinks, is a panty shot as he clambers out of his sleek Porche and he’ll be in the top ranks of celebrities.

Jackson’s folder says that he’s engaged in multiple and highly scandalous sexual affairs with men, women, and both. While Jackson  _has_  come out as bisexual, something Stiles greatly admires, there’s no honest validity to these claims.

Sigh and scrubbing his hands over his scalp, Stiles sets about writing an article utilizing these facts and shoddily edited pictures to slander Jackson’s decent enough name.

)

Whittemore & Mahealani Incorporated is a large manufacturing company; they’re a company that easily appeal to the masses for the sole goal of selling more, making more money. Not that they’re all bad. Stiles actually, almost, kind of admires them, and the amount of work they’ve put in to charities and fundraisers. It’s not as though they’re a bunch of corporate execs who are hellbent on taking over the world.

Part of the concern is that the company is being shifted from the hands of old wise men to young men without much more experience than being their father’s sons.

)

Stiles’ neck hurts, is the thing. He’s cramped up in Scott’s painfully tiny car that’s only good for road head and movie drive in’s—what with the convertible top, and all—but seeing as Stiles’ Jeep is currently locked up due to some less than legal parking, this is the best he’s got for a stake out.

Something caws outside and skitters across the roof, and Stiles so totally doesn’t scream and throw his folder of information across the car.

)

Jackson thumbs through the magazine with his face plastered on it and sighs. It’s full of garbage; the pictures are real and scarily invasive, but the articles attached are stupid, mediocre at best. They’re so bad that Jackson is almost hit with the sense that that author themselves doesn’t want to be writing the trash. But Jackson knows as well as anyone that a job is a job, and you do what you must.

)

“Do you see my problem?”

Alison, who is a saint, for both dealing with Stiles and being in love with Scott, smiles at him, her dark lipstick not even staining her cup. “I do.”

Stiles’ head falls to a thunk on the table. “He’s such a nice guy. He even helped an old lady across the street.”

“I think you’ve finally discovered the reason why journalism is so hard.”

“The bastards make it look so easy.” Stiles moans, relaxing when Scott sets down a drink and pets Stiles’ head. “Why can’t he just like, kick a puppy or yell at a little kid or steal some candy from a baby. Why can’t he just do one little thing.”

Alison snickers. “He’s not perfect.”

With tired eyes, rimmed in red, Stiles stares at her and very seriously replies, “yes, yes he is.”

)

“I’m gonna tell ‘em.”

Scott busies around him like a mother hen. “Of course you are Stiles.”

“I’m gonna! He’s not a bad guy! He’s really.. really cool. He saw me the other day and he  _nodded_. He doesn’t even know I’m stalking him but he’s still really _cool_.”

Scott snorts and sets a plate of food in front of Stiles while taking the rest of the beer to the kitchen. “Eat, then sleep, then lose your job.”

Stiles nods as he shovels pancakes into his mouth. “Good plan.”

)

Stiles has always heard about the combined forces of Finstock and Harris. Finstock, his main boss, who keeps the kids and newbies in check by yelling at them; Harris, who runs the magazine company and those who’re called into his office are never seen again.

Stiles stands before both of them, throwing the folders of information onto the desk. “I’m done.”

Harris looks at him, unwavering. “What?”

“I’m done. Whittemore doesn’t deserve this. He’s a really great guy. I’ll write an article on that.”

Harris doesn’t bother looking at the folder, though Finstock grabs it and flicks through the pictures and notes inside. “This is bullshit,” Finstock shouts, “this isn’t gonna get us anywhere.”

Harris looks far too much like a movie villain with how his lips curl into a nasty grin. “You’ll write the article we assigned or you’ll be fired.”

Finstock tosses the folder back at Stiles, who scrambles to save the papers from going everywhere. “I’m not writing a bunch of lies.”

Harris’ grin deepens. “Well then.”

)

Stiles rolls over, listening as the beer bottle in his hand falls and rolls on the ground, as his foot knocks over the box of take out resting on the arm of the couch. “Wha?” He grumbles as he raises his phone to his ear. “Scott?”

“Dude. Open your door.”

Stiles struggles to stand but manages to stumble his way to the front door; he peers through the peephole to see Scott at his doorstep. “What’s up, man?”

Scott hangs up, tucks his phone away, and holds up a magazine.

_**JACKSON WHITTEMORE—STALKED!** _

“ _ **I feared for my life,” the soon to be company executive tells us, “he just wouldn’t stop.”**_

Behind the glaringly pink heading is a picture of Stiles in sunglasses and a scarf and a hat at the same coffeeshop he knows Jackson likes to frequent. Around it are collage shots of Jackson, or of Stiles and Jackson two isles apart at a Barnes & Noble.

Stiles leans against his doorway. “Fuck.”

)

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a stalker?” Danny demands as he slams three separate magazines on Jackson’s desk.

“I wasn’t aware?” He leans forward and spreads the magazines out. “I never gave an interview.”

Danny nods and falls into a chair. “I figured. But they’re saying you did. Some poor kid is getting simultaneously slammed and worshiped.

“Worshiped?”

“Word on the street is he’s going to take action against the magazine firm.”

Jackson’s eyes linger on the small square holding a photo of the kid in question. “Huh.”

)

Stiles can’t sleep, as often happens to him, when he drags out his laptop for the first time in months, resolutely doesn’t open the internet, and begins to write.

_Media: The Most Powerful Entity on Earth._

)

_From the day I first put pen to paper, I knew it was what I wanted to do. When the ideas wouldn’t come to me easily enough, I turned to journalism. I ran the newspaper in high school, I helped in the local paper, I submitted article after article to major name papers and never got a damn thing published. I fell back on a slightly bigger than local company where if you didn’t get eaten, you ate your way to the top._

_Two years, four months, and exactly one week into my ever rising career as an actual journalist, my boss calls me into his office and I’m handed the assignment that arguably changed my life._

)

_The media will always be looking for things to rip apart; my book nor any other is going to change that. But the more people made aware of the sort of cruelty employed by most media companies at large, the less fuel to the media’s fire and thus the less damage able to be done._

_I want it noted that I never once stalked Jackson Whittemore out of love, devotion, or obsession. I watched him and learned about him on a level worlds away from personal. But never once was he in danger, nor myself, other than the danger that we’re all in peril of—media._

_I’ve written this book in hopes of educating society not only of media, Jackson Whittemore, and myself, but also of themselves, and the power they really hold._

)

His rough draft, submitted to an independent publishing company, isn’t picked up. When Alison reads it over and submits it to a family friend, Stiles gets a call less than a week later asking if he wants to print in hardback, paperback, or both.

)

Danny and him are sitting beside each other at Jackson’s pool, watching as Danny’s latest boyfriend, Matt, splashes around with his underwater camera. Danny laughs and leans over to Jackson. “Look.”

“Huh?”

“He published a book.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, unimpressed and uncaring. “Who?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Nevermind.”

)

Jackson looks over just in time to catch his face on the television screen, plastered on magazines and rags and VH1, looking just as tired and worn out as he feels. He shakes his head, eyes trained on whatever program it is that’s running on silent in the coffeeshop. Something about him, like it always it, something about all those articles published, about someone named G. Stilinski who supposedly stalked Jackson. (Jackson isn’t so sure the stalking ever happened.)

“Hey, Scott, you should totally change the channel.” A voice rings out in the usual dim quietness of the coffeeshop. “Seriously, man, I’m gonna go throw myself in front of a truck.”

Scott, who’s probably the least competent barista at this particular shop, fumbles for the remote and changes it to some indie music channel.

The kid who spoke, who Jackson has noticed frequents a lot of the same coffee and bookshops as Jackson hims, nods in thanks. “They at least could’ve called me in for an interview.”

Scott shakes his head, leaving the counter—it’s empty in the shop, anyways—and sets a drink in front of his friend. “I dunno, dude. I don’t think that woulda helped.”

“It’s VH1, Scott, not Dateline NBC.”

Scott shrugs, and looks to Jackson. “You need another?” He asks; this coffeshop is the only one Jackson knows that acts more like a restaurant at times, than just a hipster little hole in the wall.

“No, thanks.”

The kid turns, and stares at Jackson. And Jackson stares back.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh. Uh.” The kid looks stricken. “You don’t know me?”

“Am I supposed to?” Jackson asks, not entirely unkind as he finishes off his chai latte.

“Oh. Well, I guess not.”

Jackson regards him with but a raised eyebrow.

“I. I wrote the book, about you? And the media and a bunch of other stuff, it’s not just about you, but you’re kind of the main focus, kind of. Sort of.”

“Stiles is on the best seller list.” Scott adds from behind the counter.

“Stiles?” Jackson asks.

“It’s, my last name, it’s a nick name—Stilinski, Stiles, y’know?”

Jackson blinks. “ _You’re_  my stalker?” He asks with a laugh. “I—I didn’t even know.”

Stiles’ eyebrows cinch together. “Dude, you didn’t think it was weird I was everywhere you were?”

Jackson shrugs. “I figured you were new to town and just really into books and coffee.”

Stiles laughs. “Not as much as you.”

“So, what. You stalked me and published all these articles about me and then—?”

“And then I told my boss I wasn’t going to fuck around with your name anymore, because you weren’t really the major asshole you were made out to be, and I got fired, so I turned around and wrote a scandalous novel about the effects of media and especially magazines on not only celebrities but everyday people.” Stiles takes a deep breath and shudders. “I also may have written a screenplay based around you and your friend Danny but I swear it’s really not that weird.”

Jackson stands and throws away his cup. After he’s wiped his hands clean, he sits across from Stiles. “Scott, get me another latte.” He grins and leans forward. “We might be here a while.”

 

**Epilogue**

“To be fair,” Stiles says as he cuddles up closer against Jackson; they’re watching Scott’s little demon run around, “I think the story of how we met is way cooler.”

Jackson snickers around his glass of scotch. “Only because you fell in love with the celebrity.”

“Exactly.” Stiles nods, very proud.

A silence lapses. “You want kids?”

Stiles grins at Jackson and kisses his cheek sweetly. “Someday, yeah.” He loops elbows with his boyfriend. “Someone is gonna have to take over the company when you’re old and gray, y’know.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“You lo-o-o-ove me.” Stiles sing-songs, rocking Jackson where he stands. “You really lo-o-o-o-ove me!”

“You’re just an especially cute stalker.”

Stiles laughs and punches Jackson in the arm. “You’re such an asshole.” They kiss again, tasting like scotch and cake. “But I’ll take it.”


End file.
